


Kingdom Come

by 11oyd



Series: The Unforsaken Road [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Dean as Robin Hood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11oyd/pseuds/11oyd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has come to murder the king and Castiel must stop him. </p><p>Or, in which Maid Marian doesn't take any of Robin Hood's shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingdom Come

  
His head aches as pushes open the door to his excessive bedchambers, a sprawling suite with too many wardrobes and too much open space for one lonely man. Reaching up, Castiel presses down hard on the side of his forehead and grimaces at the throbbing that echoes back. He'd been up till three the night before, meeting with Ion about shipments of food coming in tomorrow, and then up till who knows when the night before that, talking with Ezekiel about which courtiers were more in favor of Lucifer's rule and which longed for the days of the former king's. His head aches, his muscles ache, and still he must put his subjects first.

He tugs off his dark gloves, sliding his hands out of the rich leather and flexing them a few times against the chill. Then off come the thick boots, accompanied with a sigh, and the heavy outer cloak. For a moment, Castiel stands at the thick oak table in the corner of the room, staring at the jug of wine resting there before shaking his head. No, not tonight. Maybe he'll have Jackson draw a bath for him; a bath might soothe the uneasiness he feels.

He's turning to ring for said servant when suddenly a voice calls, "For the man who's singlehandedly undoing the kingdom, you're not very observant, are you?"

Castiel reaches for the first thing he sees - an empty three-prong candle holder - and whirls to see a dark figure lounging idly on his bed. On  _his_ bed. "Show yourself," he orders.

"Or what?" comes the voice. "You'll badger me to death with a  _candlestick_? I'm less than impressed, Your Majesty."

And suddenly he knows who it is.

"Winchester," he says, carelessly dropping the candle holder to the thickly carpeted floor. The figure unfolds off the bed, lean and lithe as he comes towards Castiel into the light. There's a smirk on his face, but no amusement in his eyes, and he looks older since Castiel last saw him almost a year ago. Castiel feels a surprising flood of pleasure at the scar curving over his right eyebrow; that's  _his_. His mark. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

"How did I get in," scoffs Dean. He moves around Castiel, keeping a fair distance between them as he aims for the table behind him. His attention is on the food there, his back to Castiel as he says, "I know more people in this castle than you would imagine, Your Grace. It's merely a matter of knowing who to call upon."

"But  _my room_ ," says Castiel, before dismissing it. He had thought about searching for Dean again and again over the past eleven months, and yet something had always stopped him. A sense of insufficiency, perhaps. "Why have you come?"

Dean takes a sip of the wine, directly out of the golden jug, and then makes a face. "And the Italians all  _laughed_. I'm always so disappointed to sneak into the castle only to find out the food is nothing what I expected. What's the point of starving out the Realm if you can't even make decent wine?" He turns and comes up short to find the tip of Castiel's sword inches from his face.

"This is not a game to me, Prince of Thieves," he states, stepping forward and pointing his sword up higher so that Dean has to hold his head back to avoid being speared. "I don't want to banter with you - I don't want you here at all. So, again, I ask: why are you here?"

There's a dark smoldering look in Dean's eyes that sends heat shooting to Castiel's stomach. "You've changed, Prince. Take your sword away from me."

"Answer first," commands Castiel in a low voice.

They're at a stand-off.

"Do you remember the last time we fought?" asks Dean after a moment, his voice pleasant but his eyes searing.

"I remember  _you_  lost."

"There are no trapdoors here to rely on, Prince."

"I've changed," Castiel reminds him.

Dean's eyes lower, blatantly sliding down the length of Castiel's in a way that stokes the flames kindling in his abdomen. "That you have." His eyes flicker back up. "Let's test that out, shall we?"

He moves too fast for Castiel to see, reaching behind and gripping the jug of wine and then snapping his arm upright - the jug twists through the air, red wine pouring out in mid-air and Castiel draws his sword arm up and away as it catches him in the face. He turns sharply with a cry, swiping at his eyes and then coming back up, expecting combat, and barely has his sword upright when Dean's clangs hard against it, sliding down with a metallic whistle as Dean presses forward.

"Quick, I see," Dean commends, and then they're apart.

It's different from before - after nearly losing, Castiel had arranged for several new swordsmen to come to the castle to teach him. Swordsmen from all over the world, only the best for English royalty, and he picked up bits and pieces of the best, forming a style that was his own. He's practiced for hours and hours - but Dean is a swordsman unlike any other. He is fluid and unpredictable and he jabs and ducks, his sword flashing like quicksilver in the air.

Red wine drips down Castiel's face like blood.

"No trapdoors, is that it?" asks Castiel, using two hands on the hilt to block a harsh downward blow and then backing away and dropping his left arm behind him to keep his balance. "But red wine is honest trickery, that's what you're saying?"

Dean says, "You can expect me to resort to trickery," and moves just the slightest bit to the right before darting to the left and coming up behind Castiel so smoothly that he can do nothing against the sword now pressed up right against his throat. "You though? You should be ashamed for abandoning that sparkling white honor of yours."

"Is this why you're here?" He tries not to swallow and feels the sword press in enough to draw a thin line of blood. "You've come to finish me off?"

"I've come because you didn't," says Dean, right in his ear. His body is pressed right up against Castiel's and it's distracting. "Wasn't that the agreement? We finish what we started when you make a difference."

He lowers the sword and then throws it down, carelessly letting it skid away, and Castiel hesitates for a moment before turning around and staring at him, his own sword dropping to his side. "You're saying -"

"I'm saying," agrees Dean, and then surges forward and kisses him, his hands gripping either side of Castiel's face, his whole body pressing against Castiel's as he kisses him hot and hard. It's exactly like last time, just as heated and flushed, with unsuppressed passion erupting between them. Castiel groans into Dean's mouth, dropping his sword and reaching up to grip Dean's dark tunic and pull him closer,  _closer_ , and Dean pushes him backwards towards the bed.

They come apart for a moment, both breathing heavily and staring at each other. The air is tense and heavy; Castiel's already hard, just from that one kiss, body thrumming with adrenaline from the fight. Dean's eyes bore into him, his hair wild. He looks like he  _wants_  Castiel, like he would do anything to have him. He looks rough and uncontrollable, like a forest fire starting small but soon overwhelming even the tallest of trees.

He starts back for Castiel, reaching for him, and his mouth is almost on Castiel's when Castiel realizes.

"Oh," he breathes out, halting Dean's movement. If he tilted his head up just even a little bit their lips would be touching, and the distance feels impossible. He can feel Dean's breath against his mouth, smell something beyond that deep and musky and woodsy. "Oh," he says again. "You play me for a fool."

His eyes are closed, and he  _feels_  Dean's smile, his lips curving up slowly. "However do you mean?"

Castiel forces himself to take that fatal step back, his eyes flickering unwillingly up to meet Dean's. "The idea of you ever coming all the way to the castle simply for a lay is laughable. Why are you really here?"

Dean studies him for a moment and then gives him a razor sharp grin. "Sharp reasoning, Prince. But no, I'm here because the rebels are restless for blood. They're not happy waiting for you to finish your inside work here." The atmosphere, tense before, grows tenser for a different reason altogether. Castiel tells himself he is not disappointed.

"I've started distributions of food outside the castle. I'm slowly tracking down all the courtiers in favor of Lucifer and disposing of them. It's a long process."

"And I recognize this. But the rebels do not." Dean pauses. "They want Lucifer dead."

Castiel is prepared for this, but the news still makes him reel. Lucifer might be cold and callous and, yes, mad, but he's still family - of which Castiel has very little left. "Dead? And -" he stops. "You?"

"Yes," agrees Dean. "Me. I did not come to seduce the pretty third-in-line prince, unfortunately. I came to kill the king."

There is silence.

"Michael will inherit the kingdom and he is no better," Castiel finally says. "You think Michael will save the Realm? Protect the innocents, the lowborn, feed them? Michael is just as ambitious and cruel as Lucifer is, only in a different way."

Dean frowns. "My spies tell me the second eldest is set against Lucifer."

"Oh, he is."

"How do you know he will be equally harmful?"

"How do I know? Because I live here, Winchester," says Castiel, bristling. Before, he had been on Dean's terms, weakened and  _pleading_  - but now they are in Castiel's area of expertise, where people do not fight with swords but with sharp words and poisonous requests. They are in his territory now, and yet Dean still looks at him like he is dodging Dean's swords, always on defense. But things have changed, and they're in Castiel's court now. "I see him every day, and I see him act just as manipulative and conceited as the king. He's against Lucifer, but he is also for himself."

Dean glances to the side, running a hand over his unshaven face, and then slowly walks alongside Castiel's bed. "Maybe Michael is just as bad - but maybe not. The land only falls into more disarray the longer Lucifer is on the throne, and…" His hand reaches out to touch Castiel's pillow, sliding along the silk fabric for a moment in a way that makes Castiel shudder; he had been so close to falling into the very same bed with him just moments earlier. Would Dean have continued if Castiel hadn't stopped him, or was it all just a ruse?

Dean looks back to Castiel, examining him. His eyes are unreadable. "And if I don't do something soon, I may lose my following entirely. If I don't offer up a solution, they will strike in any reckless way they can, with or without me."

It's a crucial piece of information. Dean is losing control - no wonder he looks so much older, so much tireder. He's been fighting a battle this entire time.

Castiel asks, "Why are you sharing this with me?"

Dean doesn't look like he will actually answer and then, "You came back and actually changed. You weren't allowed to join me, but you still did what you could."

"Of course I did." A little smile flickers across his lips. "Whether or not I help the Realm does not depend solely on you, Dean Winchester."

Dean glances between Castiel and the bed and for a moment he looks tempted; the moment passes. "If Michael were king."

"Michael is greedy," Castiel answers. "He looks to other kingdoms after this one. The people starve now, but at least the Realm is at peace. Could you imagine your rebels if we went to war?"

A look of frustration crosses the other man's face. "So Lucifer is an ass and Michael is a greedy bastard -" And then the look disappears. He takes a step forward, abruptly looking sly. "If the first two won't work, then why not… the third?"

It takes Castiel a second to catch up and then: "No. Absolutely not."

"No?" Dean's too close now, leering a little as he stands at Castiel's shoulder. "You don't want to rule the Seven Realms?  _King_  Castiel?"

" _No_ ," says Castiel, turning so that his back is to the bed and Dean's face isn't quite so close. His heart is loud in his ears.

"Why don't you want to rule?" asks Dean, pressing in on him. He towers, despite his miniscule height difference. "It's in your blood, Cas. It's who you are. Unless -" His eyes glimmer, darting down to study Castiel's posture, the way he leans away. "Unless you don't want to rule, you want to  _be ruled_. Is that what you want? What you secretly desire?" His voice drops an octave. "For someone else to take the responsibility for a little while? Let go while someone else makes the decisions?"

Castiel's eyes have gone to half-mast, his lips parted slightly as he takes this in. His mouth feels so dry.

Dean reaches out, dragging his fingertips against Castiel's jawline, catching against the stubble there. "Want a good king, little prince? I'll be a good king for you. Just say the word."

Castiel looks at him for a moment, wondering if it's just another joke, and then he swallows hard and glances down and - yes, that's a bulge in the other man's pants. And the way he stands, the way his fingers drag against Castiel's lips as his hand falls away. He looks back up and meets deadly green eyes, holding the words in his mouth for a moment, testing them out before: "Your Majesty."

And just like that, Dean is kissing him again. Slower this time, but just as forcefully, his lips working Castiel's open and then his tongue sliding in. He sucks down on Castiel's lower lip, drawing it out and groaning into Castiel's mouth as he pushes him back, back so that his knees hit the back of the bed and he falls, Dean going with him. Their lips quicken, their movements growing more urgent against each other as they shift to the middle of the enormous bed, Dean pulling Castiel's tunic above his head restlessly.

And Dean - Dean is unlike any lover Castiel's ever had. They've all been so careful with him, from the stablehand when Castiel was fifteen to the Duke from Spain whose accent drove Castiel mad to Samandriel - even Samandriel had been cautious in his own way, letting him lead because he was a  _prince_ , third in line for the crown, and of course it was his right to lead everything - but Dean. Dean bites down hard on his throat, Dean holds his arms above his head with an iron grip, Dean's legs lock against his hips hard enough to leave bruises. And Castiel wants his bruises.

He writhes, aching, needing more - but Dean says in a soft voice, "Hold still, little prince," and Castiel dares not disobey. There's steel in that tone, steel that Castiel's heard before in his own voice but never used against him.

It makes him rock hard.

Dean's hard too; he can feel it, a hard line against his hip. Can especially feel it when Dean shifts against him, like he can't help himself. He wants that friction, Castiel does, craves it - and instead of giving it to him, Dean sucks a hard bruise into his chest.

"Dean," pants Castiel. His hands are free now, and they bury in Dean's dark hair. "Dean, please."

Dean takes one nipple into his mouth, dragging his teeth against it, biting down and causing Castiel to arch his back with a cry. He doesn't stop, sucking hard until it's red and oversensitive, until Castiel is making noises in the back of his throat he's never made before, keening, and only then does he move on to the other one.

"Dean, I need," he says.

"Is this what you need?" asks Dean, looking up at him with his flushed face and bright eyes. "Someone to hold you down and give you what you want?"

He gasps, "Yes; please," and feels wrecked.

"Your Majesty knows how to beg," Dean observes, and then kisses him hard. His tongue seeks out his mouth, tasting wild and foreign to Castiel; suddenly he flattens out on top of Castiel, his hips rolling down in a way that makes Castiel buck up into him. Even through their clothes, the friction is maddening. Dean's tunic drags over Castiel's sensitive nipples, making him ache deep everywhere, making him want to both pull away and press forward. It's messy and fast; they take a moment to unbutton their trousers and pull out, and then Dean shifts again, rocking down onto Castiel hard. He spits at one point, slicking them both up in one hand, and Castiel keens again.

Wet and fast and rough. Dean rests his forearms on either side of Castiel's head, leaning over him and panting as he grinds down on Castiel. He couldn't get up if he wanted to - and he doesn't want to; he wants to be held down and fucked over and he wants to lose control, doesn't want a kingdom or a crown or control, just wants  _this_  -

"Fuck, Cas, you're so fucking hot," Dean growls in his ear. His mouth is right there, lips brushing against his earlobe as he rolls his hips down. "Just going to lie there and take it like a good little bitch, and if I turned you over, you'd probably beg for it even more, greedy little hole - I bet you take it up the ass, don't you? Don't you, Prince?"

And then Castiel's coming, hands gripping one on the sheets and one at Dean's hip as pleasure floods his senses. He chants Dean's name like it's a prayer, like Dean really is his king, like he's  _worshipping_ , and then Dean groans long and low into Castiel's neck and freezes, his body growing tense as he comes.

They lay like that together for a brief moment, tangled up together and breathing heavily. Castiel tilts his head down, nuzzling his face into Dean's sweet-smelling hair. This probably shouldn't have happened.

"I thought we'd only do that if I did something," he says after a moment.

"You did do something," Dean replies in a low voice, his face still tucked into the corner of Castiel's neck and shoulder. His right hand is caught in Castiel's hair; his thumb is slowly moving back and forth in a hypnotizing way. Soothing, that's what he's doing. He's soothing Castiel. "You cower no longer, Prince. Soon, you will rule."

It's a bucket of cold water.

"I said no," says Castiel, drawing away. Dean's loose grip tightens on him and for a moment they are locked up before Castiel gives up and relaxes under Dean again. He turns his head away, expression clouded. "They would both have to die for me to rule. Together they have enough followers that would turn on me immediately for such obvious treason. It would never work."

"It will work," says Dean, in such a casual voice, like he plots treason every day. "If Michael dies first, who will they blame? They would never suspect you, nor even the rebels. Lucifer's death, when it came, would then be seen as righteous justice. You're  _meant_  for it. They're tearing the crown apart."

"Dean -"

He silences him with a scorching kiss, long and heated and it's enough to make Castiel begin to ache again, but when he pulls away he looks resigned. "Shall I see myself out?"

But Castiel catches his tunic, holding him as he starts to shift up. They look at each other for a long moment and then Castiel just barely shakes his head. "I'm not done with you."

"Is the prince needy?" asks Dean in a light voice, and it would be mocking except his eyes go soft and he sinks back down next to Castiel, turning him slightly so that he can press up behind him. His lips find Castiel's neck, warm and - comforting. His arm holds Castiel against him, his hand resuming its stroking but now just under his ribcage.

It's warm and wrong and Castiel is weak for it. And if he falls asleep, Dean will leave in the middle of the night, will just disappear. No effort, no planning. Just out of the room, like he hadn't fucked Castiel and planned treason.

But if Dean becomes the reason that Castiel is made king, is made to endure the rest of his life as a slave to the crown, then he damn well deserves this now. And Dean - Dean is fighting just as hard, in his own way. Perhaps there is a part of him that desires this as well. Perhaps he needs to feel strong and powerful over a future king, in order to reassure himself that he is a ruler too. Maybe they can arrange it so that  _Dean_ is king and Castiel can fade into the background like he so strongly wishes.

He wants to hear  _Don't fret, my dear_  and  _It'll all be over soon_  and instead he closes his eyes and lets his mind go blank, worries postponed for another morning.


End file.
